Evolution
by hehihello
Summary: Everyone evolves. They start as one thing and end as another. The same can be said for the Black Widow.


**A/N: Heyyy everyone! This is my first FanFiction ever, so I hope you enjoy it! **

**Warning: This is rated T, but non-explicit nudity is mentioned. You have been warned. **

**Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me :) **

* * *

Even at the brink of death, the Black Widow was far too proud to accept help. As she lay on the cold floor of an abandoned warehouse about twenty miles outside of Moscow, too weak to prop herself up against the dusty walls, she couldn't help but wonder if she would die before the man who had been tailing her found her. She wasn't stupid, she knew a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative when she saw one. The old Widow, fresh out of the Red Room and held tightly in the grasp of the Winter Soldier, would have killed the archer the moment he appeared in her peripheral vision. But this Widow, the one laying defeated on the floor of an abandoned warehouse twenty miles outside of Moscow, let him tail her, pretending she didn't know he was there. A couple of times, she considered letting him end it all. It would be painless. She'd feel the arrow pierce her skin and then nothing else. It'd be over before she knew it.

But the Black Widow did not want to die.

But now she was going to die anyways. And in an undignified way at that. She was going to go out not with a bang, but with a whimper. A sad, pathetic, beaten-down whimper. Closing her eyes, she focused on the soft crunching of boots coming from outside the window.

_He's here. _

A gust of cold air hit her square in the face as the archer opened the window and silently slipped through and placed his feet onto the creaky floorboards. He took a few tentative steps towards her, only to freeze again.

"Natalia Romanova. Move and die." Though his words were harsh, there was something comforting in hearing his voice. Maybe it was because it had been so long since she had been spoken to directly, and even longer since she had heard her childhood name roll from the lips of another, but hearing the archer's deep voice made the Black Widow feel more at home than she had in years.

"What if I want to die," she whispered. "What if I do not like what I have become?" Cracking open her eyes, she watched as the man lowered his arrow to the ground and stepped closer to her.

"You can always change."

"I've done too many bad things. There's too much red on my ledger to turn back now. Do what you were sent to do."

The man looked at her blankly, as though he did not understand why she wished to die. "We can help you. _I can help you_," he replied, taking another step closer to the Widow.

"I don't want your help," she spat as she attempted to scoot farther away from the archer.

"That's the thing about help, Natalia, sometimes people give it to you even when you don't want it."

* * *

Eleven months, one week, and five days later, Natalia Romanova became Natasha Romanoff, operative for S.H.I.E.L.D and partner to Clint Barton. Eleven months, one weak and six days later, she received her first job with S.H.I.E.L.D. She also received her first three injuries as an American agent.

"Report to medical, Agent Romanoff." Fury gestured to the ambulance to his left, where medical personnel were already patching up Hawkeye. After her training in the Red Room, Natasha had developed an affliction to needles, especially when strangers were wielding them.

"I am fine, Director," she answered tersely, eyeing Hawkeye warily.

"That was an order, Romanoff. Medical. Now."

Limping towards the ambulance, she allowed to petite EMT with a warm smile to direct her towards the spot next to Hawkeye. Natasha sat through the woman's poking and prodding all while maintaining her white knuckled grip on her ripped cat suit. Humoring Fury, she allowed the woman to wrap her ankle tightly and nodded at the appropriate times as the EMT relayed the care instructions. But the moment she saw a needle, Natasha was on her feet and limping away with surprising speed, ignoring the woman's protests. She was so focused on getting away that she failed to hear her partner's footsteps fall into sync with her own.

"You need stitches Nat," Clint said, his tone full of concern,

"It's Natasha. And I am fine," she replied, trudging towards the S.H.I.E.L.D. issued car that would be returning the partners to their shared apartment.

"No, you're not Nat. You need stitches," Clint argued, placing his arm in front of her, forcing her to stop. Throwing a glare in his direction, Natasha pushed through his arm.

"Natasha. And I have given myself stitches before. It is not hard."

Clint chose to drop the subject as she slid into the backseat. Following her into the car, he closed the door and allowed an awkward sentence to fill the air between them as they were escorted back to the apartment. Once in the apartment, Natasha made a beeline for the bathroom. She knew that she needed stitches, but she'd be damned if she allowed someone else sew her together like a rag doll when she was perfectly capable of doing so herself.

But Clint Barton easily beat her there, effectively blocking the doorway with his large frame. Tired of fighting, Natasha stopped several feet away from her partner with her shoulders slumped. "Let me through," she demanded, though the edge in her voice was quickly eroding due to exhaustion.

"Let me help you." Still not budging, Clint crossed his arms across his broad chest, waiting for the Widow to retaliate. Letting out a tired sigh and brushing her bangs out of her eyes, Natasha groaned. He had to make things difficult, didn't he?

_In Russia, there is a wonderful word dedicated to people like you, Hawkeye_.

"I don't want your help."

Rolling his eyes, as though Natasha was speaking a foreign language, Clint uncrossed his arms and reached out, gripping the Widow's narrow, bony shoulders in his calloused hands. Jumping at contact, Natasha attempted to rip herself out of his strong grip, but her attempt was half-hearted and weak.

"Maybe you don't want my help, Nat—"

"Natasha."

"—but like it or not, I'm helping you. Deal with it."

Throwing in the towel, Natasha reluctantly allowed Clint to lift her up onto the bathroom vanity. Sighing in defeat, she let her head lean against the mirror.

"Why are you doing this Hawkeye?"

Clint looked up from the first aid kit, his eyes locking with hers. "Because we're partners." Allowing the bathroom to fall silent again, Natasha watched as Clint gently washed away the blood that had dried onto her forehead.

"By the way, it's Clint."

* * *

As the next thirteen months pass by, Natasha slowly grows to trust Clint. Though she would never admit it, and always puts up a fight about it, she almost enjoys Clint bandaging her wounds. When it's just the two of them, for the first time in a long time, she feels as though someone truly cares about her.

And though she'd never admit it out loud, she cherishes that feeling in a way she did not know she was capable of.

On the day of her two year anniversary with S.H.I.E.L.D, a building nearly collapses on her. It was a solo mission, something that the Widow had grown to resent. It was almost laughable that a year ago, she would have given anything to be in the field by herself. There was a time when she liked the fact that she was the only person she could depend on, but that time had since passed. This was the beginning of a new Widow, a Widow who preferred partner ops to solo ops and though she would never admit it to Clint, she preferred him to any other spy she could be partnered with.

And though she genuinely hoped that her true feelings didn't show, Natasha Romanoff felt her spirits lift when Clint opened the door to their shared apartment.

"Hey," he smiled at her, ushering her into the safety of their home. Closing the door behind them, Clint led Natasha into the bathroom. Holding her at an arm's length, his eyes traveled up and down her body, he searched for any obvious injuries.

"What's hurting?" he asked, his genuine concern etched clearly onto his finely chiseled features.

"I'm fine." _Possibly broken, definitely bruised ribs along with a dislocated shoulder_.

"Nat."

"Natasha."

"Please, just tell me so I can help." Clint's eyes were begging her to answer him truthfully.

"I don't—"

"Nat, it's just me," Clint whispered as he reached towards the zipper on her cat suit and slowly pulled it down. Natasha protested about the nickname, but her heart wasn't in it.

Though the Widow was not modest by any means— with the amount of time and effort she put into training, she knew that she looked good—but allowing a man to undress her, even if he had no ulterior motives, was hard for her to swallow. But still, she allowed him to treat her as though she was a child. She even went as far as to place her hands on him shoulders as he guided her ankles from the tight confines of her cat suit.

Turning the water on high, Clint stripped down to his boxers and led Natasha into the stream of hot water. Groaning, she tilted her head back and let the water begin to wash away the grime from the day. Silently, Clint reached for her shampoo. After putting a generous amount into the palm of his hand, he began to massage her scalp, washing her hair with the utmost care. Despite her usual rule against contact, since being in the shower with her partner was also breaking multiple of her personal rules, Natasha leaned into Clint's touch, amazed that the touch of a man could be so wonderful. When Clint's hands left her scalp, she whimpered at the loss of contact.

_Have I no dignity left? What happened to depending on no one? _

But all thoughts of dignity went out the window as Clint began to wash her body, attempting to massage away as many of her aches and pains as he could. The amount he cared was evident, and that scared Natasha more than she'd ever admit.

But what scared her more was that she cared about him just as much.

"My shoulder, it's dislocated. Can you…" Natasha trailed off, knowing that Clint understood. Turning her around in the shower, Clint held her close before pushing her shoulder back to where it belonged. Fighting back tears, Natasha avoided eye contact. Here she was, naked and more vulnerable than she had ever been, but the thought of Clint seeing her cry was unthinkable.

"I probably should wrap your ribs for you, Nat."

She didn't bother correcting him.

* * *

Another three months passed by before Clint came home from a solo mission in really bad shape. His clothing was caked with blood, he was favoring his left leg, and he was cradling his left arm against his chest.

"Target spotted me. Rookie mistake," he grumbled as he hobbled to the bathroom. Natasha quickly slid herself under his right arm to bear some of his weight, only wanting to ease his pain.

"Medics took care of my dislocated wrist, but after that I told them I just wanted to go home to you."

_Home. To me_.

"… sprained ankle, deeply bruised hamstring, not sure how much of this blood belongs to me," he continued, listing his injuries one by one. Opting to remain silent, Natasha had Clint sit down on the rim of the tub as she reached into their first aid kit.

"I'm going to have to cut away your clothing," she said, he voice shaking.

"S'fine."

With unsteady hands, Natasha snipped away his waffle shirt and pants, both of which were caked in blood. Making quick work of his boxers and guiding him into the shower, Natasha took a steadying breath before entering the stall herself. Doing her best to clean away all of the dirt and blood so she could identify the source of the blood, Natasha watched Clint's face intently, trying to gauge how much pain he was in. Feeling the sudden need to say something—anything—Natasha spoke up.

"I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

"This," she said, gesturing between the two of them. "Taken care of someone else. All these years that I've been bandaging my own cuts and stitching my own wounds and relocating my own shoulders, never once have I taken care of someone else."

As she reached back and turned off the water, Clint stepped out of the shower, toweling himself dry. Sitting down on the lid of the toilet, he patiently waited as Natasha searched for the right ointments and bandages in their vat of first aid supplies.

"What do you think of it?"

Natasha looked up, confusion written clearly on her face.

"What do you think of taking care of someone else, that it," Clint clarified.

Smiling softly, Natasha went back to digging. "I guess I like it," she mumbled, color beginning to rise in her cheeks. "Because having someone else to take care of means I'm not so alone anymore."

* * *

**A/N: I hope you liked it! review with some feedback :) **


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